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86 Celebrating YEARS OF BUSINESS

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Lives Intertwined

"W hy ya wanna hurt my heart so?” We heard this from the other end of the phone when we asked an employee if the business where she worked was open on a particular holiday. Her answer was limp with defeat: “Yes.” Despite feeling a degree of empathy, Husband and I thought it was just about the funniest business phone reply ever. And now I say it and feel it with every bit of my being. Damn it, my world of late (and perhaps yours, too) is just slipping away.

Why, why do they leave us? Neighbors, best friends, that small business around the corner… Why do they have to go and break my heart? This is not my first rodeo, nor will it be the last, when someone moves away and unwittingly disrupts my comfort zone, my world. You know how it is, we all do—people and things move on, leave us. Sometimes it is for the greater good. Often it is out of necessity, and too often it happens without control, without a voice in the matter—sometimes they die.

What got me to thinking about this, I mean really feeling all this, was a departure for the greater good. Hannah, our neighbor next door—and by next door, I mean on the other side of our walls—got accepted into veterinarian school in Boston. And this is exactly what a smart and extremely talented vet tech/animal advocate aims for. She will become a vet and will undoubtedly make a profound difference in the lives and welfare of creatures that desperately need someone like her. The world will be a better place for critters. But damn, double damn, we will miss her. She became our friend, and Lord knows our cats and dog are gonna miss having their own vet tech under the same roof. She came to their rescue numerous times.

Now, this cat goddess (she really loves cats) came with a roommate, a friend since college days: Sabre. Her housemate also became someone we fondly call a friend. He is that perfect person to inhabit the other side of an uninsulated, non-sound-proofed wall (if you have ever lived in a New Orleans shotgun double—same as a duplex—you know that your neighbor and you “share” a house with privacy provided by that wall). I cannot hear a sound from him—it’s like he is on mute. And he is kind enough to never bitch about Husband and me. We are constantly turned to high volume. So, you see where this is going—he, too, is moving.

Good neighbors are one of life’s blessings. If you are smart, you recognize them for the treasure that they are, and you spend lots of time sucking up to them (I meant to say being kind and thoughtful). Of course, great neighbors tend to out-do your good gestures, and when they move, you reproach yourself with the “what ifs?” What if we had been quieter, not talked their ears off, shared more homemade food, maybe paid their rent for them (okay, that’s a bit much)? But sometimes, you just can’t take it personally—you have to let them go.

Moving away. That is what our dear friend Judy decided to do. On the heels of Hannah and Sabre abandoning us, I received the lousy news that Judy is following her family to some godforsaken place in the northeast. Sure, it’s beautiful, good rent, walking distance to all she needs, and her family is there. Did I mention great weather? (She loves snow.) Family is the bonus for her with this move. I told her that she was “our family,” and we could take care of her if she needed someone one day. Her reply? “You’re too old.” Well, excuse me! Her move has left a deep hole in the hearts of all who came to know and love her. We are selfish—we need her here in our lives. Oh well, I guess one day I will learn to use Zoom and pretend that she is actually here with me drinking wine.

The Virus (feeling trapped within a Stephen King novel?) has caused a shuttering of our world. Small shops, big stores, art and entertainment venues, schools, and the list goes on and on, are in a state of suspension—even those open are limping along with the fear that they may soon lack the legs to carry on. Each permanent closure inflicts irreparable damage on its community. For a business or venue to throw in the towel (heavy with sweat and tears), they must deal with the added pain of facing employees and customers who are dependent upon them. So, goodbyes are now a daily thing. Bye Albert and the neighborhood bar/eatery you grew (Pirogues); bye Bellegarde Bakery, created with so much heart by Graison Gill (still optimistic that he will reopen); K-Paul’s—if they could fall to this pandemic, what business is safe? We are forced to bid adieu to our country’s talent, treasures, and historical brick-and-mortars daily.

The lives lost. The hearts broken. Families fractured. This surreal world we are in now has made death too real. And among the Virus victims are those who lost their personal battles to cancer and other maladies. These dear souls had to go that final distance without the touch or embrace of loved ones—channeling a lifetime of memories through the handhold of a kind stranger, their doctor or nurse. My dear Carolyn was among those human treasures who will leave a world of people to never quite be the same without her. Every day, someone with her immense kindness, her ability to make this place better and to contribute wit, intelligence, and above all, friendship, leaves us.

Goodbyes are inevitable. But they are too many, too fast of late. The best attitude I can muster is that I have been privileged to have known so many people and places worth the pain of missing and worthy of the tears. Still, why it gotta hurt my heart so?

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Parlay-Vous or Waggin’ the Dog

Italked it over with my dog, and I suggested that as soon as we can, we should go to France. Together. She’s dubious and underwhelmed, and I can see that I’ll have to sell this.

One of the sidebars of the voluntary-seminonmedical-stay-at-home self-quarantine, besides a lot of time on my hands, is my newfound ability (and inclination) to converse with things around me, animate and in(animate). To the dishes in the sink: “What are you looking at?” To my Italian pepper plant: “Stop already, I have enough @#%$%^& peppers!” To my refrigerator: “That’s the LAST beer?” To my dog: “Hey Scout, wanna go to France?”

Scout doesn’t know what a “France” is, so I explain. “We go to the airport, get on an airplane, and fly for a while to where they eat different food, speak a different language, and do different things.”

“You mean like Fairhope, Alabama?” she asks.

“Kinda,” I say.

“What’s an airplane?”

“It’s like a bus that goes in the air like a bird.”

A very pregnant silence ensues. Then: “Do I sit in a seat, like in the car?”

“How do you feel about riding in another room on the plane, with the suitcases?”

“I don’t think I’d like that.”

“Okay, I’ll ask the vet if she’ll get you an exemption, like as a ‘companion dog.’”

“Good. Is it a long way away?”

“About half a day in the plane and then another half a day on a train.”

“Why can’t we take the car? Will I eat? What if I have to pee? Can I sit on your lap? Will there be treats?”

“Yes and no. You’ll probably be asleep the whole time. One minute you’ll be home, and the next you’ll be in France. We’re going to a little town called Angaïs. We’ll stay in a hotel.”

“You mean like Fairhope?”

“Kinda.”

“Is Mom coming?”

“Sure thing, Buddy.”

“What about the cats?”

“The cats have to stay home.”

“Will there be cats? I like cats; I have four. What will be for supper? Can I still sleep in bed with you?”

“Well, we’ll mostly be eating out, but here’s the good news: You’ll be able to come into the restaurants and cafés with us. You see, in France, they believe that canines are to be welcomed everywhere, even where you eat out.”

“Really?”

“Here’s the other thing: The language there is mostly foreign to me, so I won’t be talking with other people as much. You’ll get lots of attention because many people there won’t know what I’m saying, either. We (your Mom and I) have been to major attractions in France, and this time, we’re just going to chill, have walkabouts, drink in the scenery, and eat some great food. Once we’re over there, we’ll be eating cheeses and pastries and breads, and we’ll see if we can rent a little place with a kitchen so that we can have coffee and croissants in the morning, fresh from the boulangerie—that’s what they call a bakery. We’ll drink wine in the afternoon at lunch and have Pastis with warm water in the afternoon. We’ll go boating on the river and introduce you to any new friends we make. We won’t know anyone there; it will all be new.”

“Can we still have Happy Hour at night with beer and potato chips and treats like at home? Am I gonna like this France place? I don’t know about this Angaïs place.”

“Well, Angaïs is a small town in a bigger area. It’s a kinda nothing-to-do place, but that’s what we want, eh? There’re other towns around it, unless you’d rather stay in the country. Oh, there are also mountains and a beret museum. I saw some in-town places for rent in a place called Pau, where we’d walk around and shop and stuff like we do in the French Quarter, and some country places, in case you want the great outdoors, with names like Asson, Peyrouse, and Ferrières. I’m gonna leave it up to you; it doesn’t make much difference to me.”

“Then why are we going?”

“Listen, Scoute (that’s your name in French), this year has been a real wear on me. The world has had sickness and trouble in the streets. We’ve had politicians fighting and calling each other names up to here and storms blowing through, and remember when our street flooded? And we’ve had to stay home and wear stuff on our faces. I’ve been out of work, we’ve had no visitors, and I watch the news all the time on television and read the newspaper. I’m sure that I haven’t been much fun, and we don’t go for walks as often or go riding in the car as much. And the year isn’t even over yet. And there goes that damn phone again! I just want to be someplace where I don’t know the language, the politics, or the currency, and I can get amnesia. I’ll take my sketch pad and some inks and maybe draw a lot of what I see. We’ll take pictures. We’ll take naps.”

“What’s amnesia?”

“All of what I just said.”

I had to stop there and answer the person on the phone, who wanted to cancel my student loan debt, even though I’ve been out of school since Washington crossed the Delaware, and besides, Scout was at the front porch barking at the postal delivery person—a daily ritual for her. She came back in, wagging her tail, and said, “Why don’t we just go to Fairhope? I bet you can get some amnesia there!”

Well, you know, when your dog is smarter than you are, you have to give it to her. “Okay, Scout, you wanna go to Fairhope?

“Yippee!”

“Okay, let’s go tell your Mom.”

“I love you, Dad!”

“Je t’aime aussi, chérie.”